But, oh! what tongue to Laura shall relate Loofe and dishevell'd was her auburn hair, The fofteft paffion to the virgin's heart; THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE RABBIT. HA But, with the fafety nature yields, Το crop the tender herb. There might'st thou fkip, there fpend a life, To care unknown, unknown to ftrife, There fhun the greyhound's speed; But-O unhappy!--in thy bloom, Thou wert-alas! it was thy doom By schoolboy's hand to bleed! Thy fportive days, alas! were few, Nor e'er barbarity they knew- Refrain from tears who can! Thou ne'er knew'ft malice or deceit, But, ah! it was decreed by Fate, To find they were in man. If this propofal is too much, Now Toby, harmless Toby's dead, FROM A GENTLEMAN IN THE COUNTRY, TO HIS FRIEND IN TOWN. ROM Whichwood's deep fhades, and it's Where Fancy, delighted, at liberty roves; O could you, Philander, these gay groves among, With me catch the notes of the tweet feather'd throng, With ears full of rapture hear Philomel's strain, And fee the fleet hart bound along the smooth plain; The town, and it's pleafures, with scorn you'd refign; To the waters of Lethe ambition confign; tend, And vow,here,with quiet, life's vain dream to end. O loft to each joy, who toil in the crowd, Who cringe to the noble, or bow to the proud; Who bustle along through life's peopled way, And grafp at each phantom that shines in the day! Who know not to feast on that heavenly repaft, Which never can fatiate, but charms to the laft; The fweets that from peace and tranquillity flow, And the rest of the foul, which the poor only know; The clear limpid breaft, and the heart void of pain, Which finks at no lefs, and throbs for no gain. As I reft in the fhade, or refresh at the rill," Or flowly afcend yon green-waving hill; As I hear the gay birds their lov'd defcants repeat, And inhale rich perfume from each gale that I meet: I pity the fplendid, the pompous, and great, Where paffion and error fo oft intervene. By falfhood and flattery let others aspire, In the climax of fortune, to rife a step higher; For the fhouts of the mob the patriot may toil, The hero through foes may rufh for the fpoil, Unenvied the poet his laurels may wear, And Ambition still hug it's delufion and care: No No wish in my bofom e'er fonder shall rife, Than to tafte, undisturb'd, the delights of the wife; With prudence, and wisdom, and temperance, to roam, And fix all my warmeft attachments at home. Heaven fpreads forth it's bleffings as plenteous as dew; While our wants are our own, or but trivial and few: In ambition alone all our wretchedness lies, Can the pomp of attendance, the foppery of The line of ancestors to monarchs allied, Then fay, my dear friend, would you envy the lot Nor confcience repeats every bafenefs aloud; So haftens each mortal to one common grave, Since, then, my Philander, we all know our fate, When your tear, and your verse, shall hallow my grave, And your friendship my memory religiously save; JULY 6. HALI ODE TO SOLITUDE, "AIL! Solitude, the Mufes friend! To thee I ring the tuneful lyre; Do thou thy magic influence lend, And wake devotion's hallow'd fire: For thee I quit the noise of strife, And feek the humbler fcenes of life; To foar on Contemplation's wing, And glow with rapture as I fing. See! Cynthia, emprefs of the night, Emits a beam of glimmering light; And, bursting through a fable cloud, Proclaims in Reafon's ear aloud, While rolling round her deftin'd sphere, That God is acting every where: Self-pleas'd, the grateful theme I fondly join, And hail the Author, and his Power, divine. Oh! come, Reflection, heaven-born maid, And all thy wonted power display; Point out where I have erring stray'd, And lead me from the devious way! Thus, taught by thee, unerring guide, To fhun the motley fons of pride; Whofe minds have ever fince their birth Kept level with their mother Earth; Whofe fouls, confin'd to Folly's fhrine, Can fcarcely prove themfelves divine, Till Death obliquely throws the dart, And wounds the victims to the heart, Then, bursting from the tottering clay, Each gently wings itself away, And leaves behind a fenfelefs, mouldering clad, To meet the vengeance of an angry God. Then, while Reflection's fober power With me fhall kindly deign to dwell, Be mine the task, each fleeting hour Some pleafing moral truth to tell; And, wak'd from life's fantastic dream, Where mortals are not what they feem, (But, fkill'd in fraudful guile and art, Deceive the eye, to win the heart;) Let me forfake the treacherous crowd, The rich, the poor, the mean, the proud, To taste the sweets of Solitude, Where seldom human ills intrude, There mark where Virtue's fons have trod, And look through nature up to God; Tili, rifing far above terreftrial toys, The raptur'd foul foresees eternal joys! And those, who by parental ties Now check the Mufe's flights in vain, Will, when they mount th' ætherial fkies, With rapture join the grateful ftrain; But now, untaught in claffic lore, Above their reach the Mufes foar: A venal tribe! for pride, and wealth, They barter Eafe, Content, and Health; G 2 Seek Seek pleasure in gay Folly's round, Since, kindly, Heaven on me bestows A heart that with devotion glows; Of bleffings, while he's deftin'd here, In these delightful fylvan fhades, Where birds their evening carols fing; And rifing hills, and opening glades, Difplay the beauties of the fpring; Oft may I mufing steal along, And join the sweet, melodious fong; While Zephyr's gentle, winnowing gale, Comes wafting fragrance from the vale; The mingling fweets promifcuous rife, Perfuming Æther to the skies, And Nature to the fenfes yields Joys equal to the Elyfian fields. Here, Genius! here thy tribute raise, And tune to Heaven thy vocal lays; Here freely range, or court the fhady bower, And wait ferenely for the changeful hour. JULY 8. AMINTOR WILLIAM AND EMMA. THE HE village clock, with awful found, Had told the midnight hour; When hapless Emma weeping lay Within a hawthorn bower. Adown her cheeks, with forrow pale, Her gentle bofom heav'd a figh, As thus, with mournful voice, she cried- When William told his tender tale, As thus, with grief opprefs'd, the fpoke, From the dark, dreary grave, I come, In this dead hour of night; While the pale moon, behind a cloud, Conceals her borrow'd light; To foothe your troubled mind to reft, And banish your despair; To warn you death will foon approach, No more let grief your bofom fwell! But feek my grave, nor doubt to find Farewel, my love! I hence am call'd, For fee! the rofy morn appears, SONNET FROM PETRARCH. ALONE, and penfive, thro', defeated meads! Slowly, with meafur'd ftep, I wandering go, My eyes intent to fhun each path that leads Where printed fands the human footsteps show, No other refuge left but in despair, To fhun the world's difcernment I retire; Since now in Pleasure's train no part I bear, My outward mien betrays my inward fire! Methinks, henceforth, the mountains, groves, and plains, And rivers, know my melancholy mind; But only thefe, to all befide untold: And yet, what favage track unfought remains, However rude, but love my haunts will find And he and I alternate converse hold! JUNE 30. QUINTILIAN A fober knight, who would be what he chose, Bought, and long wore, a pair of worfted hofe. But ftockings muft, like empires, feel disease, And time, that alters all things, alter'd these. From worsted they grew filk; for, with much art, His fempftrefs darn'd with filk each broken parti Till, like old boroughs, they became derang'd, And e'en their very conftitution chang'd. Thus chang'd our manufacture of to-night; Firft from the loom as Farce it faw the light, Our weaver view'd the ftuff with courteous eye, And bade it be wrought up to Comedy; (And, (And, when you fee it's texture, may you find Poets there are, of generous foul, who grudge Fare how he may, our poet fought but this, To paint plain life precifely as it is; And all may trace the likeness, for you meet And each (sustain'd by kindred spirits near him) Plagues you with Off-off-off! or-Hear him! -hear him! Yet do not think our bard would bribe your He trufts that fairest judge, the public voice. child!) At once Minerva and Thalia fmil'd; Built her a coach-a grand onel-in Long Acre! Happy the high-born fair, whose ample dower Pours in her wealthy lap a golden shower! While many a friend-fincere, no doubt-surrounds Her thousand charms-and hundred thousand pounds. But fhe, who pines in want; whofe early bloom And fummons Hymen to the genial bed; FAVOURITE BALLAD, COMPOSED BY MR. ARNE. SUNG BY MR.ARROWSMITH, AT VAUXHALL. rouz'd by the trumpet's loud clangor to arms, WHEN Reluctant I quitted Eliza's bright charms; controul That charm of diftinction, a woman's free foul; When we drove them inglorious away from the field, And by Prudence and Virtue compell'd them to yield: Then rouze to the battle, exert ev'ry charm, While the trumpet, loud founding, cries-Arm, females, arm! Thus the Amazons once, as by poets we're told, 'Tis more than the blush of the rofe in the morning, The white of the lily is not fo adorning, All accident proof, and all fcrutiny scorning; "Tis eafe to the witty, and wit to the weak. 'Tis furely the girdle that Venus was bound with, The graces, her handmaids, all proud, put it on; 'Tis furely the radiance Aurora is crown'd with, Who, fmiling, arifes, and waits for the fun. Oh! wear it, ye laffes, on every occafion; 'Tis the nobleft reproof, 'tis the strongest perfuafion; "Twill keep, nay, 'twill almoft retrieve reputation! And last, and look lovely, when beauty is gone. THE BRITISH TAR. WRITTEN BY MILES PETER ANDREWS, ESQ. SUNG BY MR.ARROWSMITH, AT VAUXHALL SONS Growing honours wait you now; Think not fervile adulation Meanly marks my grateful fong, All the praises of the nation Given to you, to you belong; And rival kingdoms fend from far Their plaudits to the British Tar. 'Tis not now your valiant daring Courage you've for ages fhewn; 'Tis not now your mild forbearing Pity ever was your own; 'Tis your prince, fo lov'd, fo pleasing, Spreads your fame thro' diftant lands, And, the trident nobly feizing, Grafps it in his youthful hands; Proud to boast, in peace or war, The virtues of the British Tar.. When the times were big with danger, See your royal fhipmate go, Brave the fury of the foe: Greet him with a failor's arts; Pay his fervice with your hearts; And be, henceforth, your leading ftar, The gallant, royal, British Tar. IMPROMPTU. HE virtuous Chamberlain maintains, When books or prints obfcene he fees, No blood lafcivious fills his veins; Good man! his fang froid's quite at ease. Nor can the most indecent prints Kindle with him fuch ardent blushes, As when, in Heaven's own Book, he squints At-little Mofes in the rushes. H |